The Weight of the World
by figliedellatempesta
Summary: The weight of the world rests upon his shoulders.  Logan, the King of Albion must bear this suffering alone.


It had been six months. Six months to the day, in fact, since his journey to Aurora. Six months in which his world had collapsed.

The pain, in fact, was of relative insignificance when compared with the other ways in which his life had changed, in which the ground beneath his feet had crumbled. The fear. The constant, gnawing, nagging, clawing fear; for his people, yes, but also for himself. His every waking moment was consumed by worry and stress about what he now knew, and his every attempt to fight this fate was driving him further away from his old self, from his people and from his family. Yet if that was his fate in his waking hours, sleep brought yet worse: the nightmares from which he woke sweating, shaking and hyperventilating.

But on this particular night, it was the pain that was making its presence known. Not that much could compare with the pain he had experienced in that cave six months ago: the hideous, rending agony, the crippling fear and the sheer horror of seeing every other one of his men killed in the most blood-curdling way. The Aurorans had saved him, but barely a day went by when he didn't wish that he had died with the rest of them. It was yet another night when he had woken at 3am, gasping for air, from a nightmare in which the Crawler played a starring role.

The thing with the Crawler is, once it gets its metaphorical claws into you, you will never be free of its clutches. Its voice seeped into his dreams and into his thoughts, its blank face haunted the corners of his mind. It was coming for him, slowly but surely, but in the meantime it would use every other technique within its power to destroy him.

In the last six months, he had seen countless doctors about the constant, crippling headaches, the sharp pains that shot down his limbs at random intervals, the stabbing pains in his back and chest and the insomnia. Dear God, the insomnia. Everyone was beginning to notice the deep, dark circles beneath his eyes which had become a permanent feature of his already haggard face. Yes, he had seen more doctors than he cared to count; the finest minds in Albion, apparently, but despite bribes and threats, none had been able to explain the vivid nightmares which ended in agonising phantom pains as dreamed monsters sank their incorporeal claws into his flesh. None had been able to offer more than bottles of painkillers and sleeping tablets for the condition that he was beginning to think may all be in his head.

In all honesty, though, how could any of them understand? He could hardly explain to them what he had seen, what he had experienced. He could hardly describe to them the ethereal, insect like creature, nor the hordes of shadowy children that had brought down an army as if they were skittles and left him begging for death. There could be only two reactions to this: sheer panic, which was too dangerous for him to risk, or disbelief, possibly even ridicule. He knew they could not understand; they would dismiss him as a madman. No, as it was, the only people who knew, the only ones who believed him were the Aurorans, a discredited desert race who were little known or trusted by the mainland people.

In short, he had to endure the terror, agony, pressure, worry and depression alone. There was no one he could confide in and no one who could, or would, support him or comfort him. Not his sister, not his advisers, not his servants. What he wouldn't give, in all honesty, his pride aside, what he wouldn't give for someone to hold him, to rub his shoulders, ease his pain and stress, comfort him in the long dark hours. But that wasn't to be. The greatest burden he had to bear, on top of the responsibility - the weight of the world itself – on top of the knowledge he had, which he couldn't share with anyone, on top, even, of the suffering he had to endure, was the fact that he was so hated; so hated for doing what he knew he had to do. Watching his sister, his own sister, his flesh and blood betray him, criticise him and loathe him. Over the last year he had watched her grow from a naïve child into an ever more mature woman. Still equally naïve, perhaps, but he wouldn't have it any other way. She was still carefree, still skipping around the palace accompanied by her friends, servants and boyfriend. She no longer played hide and seek amongst the shrubbery in the palace gardens, but she was still young and still unaware of the true pressures of royalty. Although she was growing stronger, braver and more regal by the day, she was still too young to be told the truth, too young to share his burden. Perhaps that day would come, but for now he could not rely on her for that. He was glad to defend her from the horrors he had to face, but he knew she hated and despised him for it. It broke his heart a little more each day to see the anger and hatred in her eyes when she looked at him. She said nothing when he gave orders and made announcements, but he could read in her posture and expression her disdain and disgust.

He didn't show it, of course, but of course it hurt. It hurt to see his sister look upon him as a tyrant, to see the glazed look in the eyes of his adjutants as they followed his orders with obvious disagreement, to see people only prevented from openly booing him in the street by pure fear and to hear the whispers behind his back that they only thought he could not hear.

He had to defend his sister. He had to defend them all from the darkness and horror that threatened to consume every one of them. He had to, and he would, continue to fight, no matter what. He had been born to this suffering and he must bear it with whatever strength he could find. He had to, and he would, lead his country and keep it safe. But as he awoke in a cold sweat, suppressing a cry of pain, with not a person in the world to care, this was of little comfort to him.


End file.
